


03:24

by hayesgeneration



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayesgeneration/pseuds/hayesgeneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fucking seriously, Hale…” Stiles murmurs into his pillow. He’s lying on his own arm, bent under the soft of his stomach, and it’s starting to fall asleep. Stiles wiggles miserably. What’s wrong with just sleeping soundly? When is sleep <i>ever</i> something you shouldn’t do? Peaceful sleep takes the prize of Life, above fries and kittens and sometimes sex (but not all three together, that’d be gross).</p>
            </blockquote>





	03:24

It’s kicking that rouses Stiles to begin with. He turns onto his other side with a disgruntled snort, away from the kicking, flopping down on his stomach, and pushes his open mouth against the pillow. When he drifts off to sleep again, brain apparently content that it was probably just a sleepy shift beside him, he easily re-enters his previous dream about a giraffe driving his Jeep with its neck sticking out the window, trying not to hit trees and street lamps.

But then there’s another kick, right against his ankles, and Stiles jerks to a sudden, nearly wakeful state and moans. He cracks one eye open. The red letters of the clock on his nightstand are blaring “03:24” right in his face, and Stiles closes his poor eye again with another frustrated moan.

“Fucking seriously, Hale…” Stiles murmurs into his pillow. He’s lying on his own arm, bent under the soft of his stomach, and it’s starting to fall asleep. Stiles wiggles miserably. What’s wrong with just sleeping soundly? When is sleep _ever_ something you shouldn’t do? Peaceful sleep takes the prize of Life, above fries and kittens and sometimes sex (but not all three together, that’d be gross). Fucking Derek and his heavy legs and big feet and mutt tendencies – Stiles has a theory that sometimes, Derek dreams about chasing down prey, feet twitching like a dog’s on the prowl. He’s taking that theory (and many others like it) to the grave, even if it kills him (which might just be _what_ kills him, actually).

But then there’s a soft sound coming from Derek, a very low, very drawn out whine that trails off into a muffled huff. Stiles opens one eye again, looking into the dark of the bedroom, and frowns. What the hell? He lies still, completely still, listening for any more sound, for movement. Derek’s breathing is a little shallow, just barely perceptible over Stiles’ own, when he listens for it. There’s another whine, thinning Derek’s voice like fine sandpaper, and Stiles finally lifts his head from the pillow, sits up and carefully turns, mattress dipping slightly under him as he moves around.

It’s a little too dark to see properly, what with the blinds pulled down and it being freaking half past three in the middle of the night, but Stiles can faintly make out the outline of Derek’s shoulders and the back of his head. As his eyes adjust a bit more, he can tell how mussed up Derek’s hair is. That would be Stiles’ fault and he regrets absolutely nothing. One of these days, Derek will understand that while his hair is fabulous, Stiles should be allowed to mess it up without being brutally mauled for it (although Stiles hopes that day never comes, because he digs the almost-mauling, is all for the mauling, hell, he encourages the mauling, as long as any evidence is left under shirt-collar-level).

Derek snorts, suddenly, and rips at the pillow mostly resting under his throat, and Stiles hears tearing. And while Stiles feels that at some point, maybe in the morning, Derek will most definitely be told to replace it, it’s going to have to wait.

Stiles gingerly lays his palm between Derek’s bare shoulder blades and is surprised to find his back clammy and hot, and most of all, so fucking tense you could dumb a freaking grenade on it without leaving a dent. Stiles rubs his hand over Derek’s damp (slightly gross but okay, not really) skin and up, up, into his hairline.

“Der,” Stiles says softly, voice rough with sleep. There’s no reaction. Derek twitches occasionally, his body rigid against the sheets.

“Derek,” Stiles tries again, a little louder, short nails scraping gently through the short hair in the back of Derek’s neck. There’s another whine, and it’s actually a bit cute. Another thought Stiles is taking to the grave. He’s going to die a man with many secrets. No surprises there.

“Der, wake up, you’re dreaming,” Stiles leans down and mutters against the skin on Derek’s shoulder, close to his ear. Derek jolts then, locked mostly still in his stiff position, and Stiles yanks his head back when he hears Derek snap his teeth closed _loudly_ around a purely-reflex-snarl (and after this long, the click of elongated teeth has become familiar to Stiles, sometimes kind, sometimes not). Stiles quickly regains composure and goes back to rubbing his hand over Derek’s neck, down his back, a little firmer, harder; he’s there, it’s just him, it’s safe.

“You okay?” Stiles asks quietly as he gradually hears Derek’s breathing even out, hands slowly unfolding from the torn pillow. There are a few mushy feathers dancing sporadically above Derek’s head as he flips onto his back and immediately pulls Stiles down to him. Stiles plasters himself against Derek’s front, which isn’t as sweaty as his back, and slots his head into place under Derek’s chin. Derek’s heart is still beating quicker than normal, but Stiles’ hand smoothing up and down Derek’s side soothes it. It always does. Derek exhales forcefully through his nose, air sweeping over Stiles’ forehead.

“It was hot,” Derek mumbles crustily and splays his hand on Stiles’ lower back under his t-shirt, just above the elastic of his boxers. Stiles squeezes Derek’s hip. Nightmares are rare with Derek. Your subconscious can only have you burn alive so many times before your sleeping self catches onto the validity of the events.

“I’m okay.” Derek says. “Go back to sleep.”

Stiles strokes the side of Derek’s neck until the werewolf’s breathing becomes slow. 


End file.
